The whole family was happy when my 60-year-old father remarried a young woman 30 years younger than him. Everyone thought everything would go smoothly, but about an hour later, when the whole family had fallen asleep, suddenly from the bridal chamber came the young wife’s cries…
That night, everyone thought everything would end with a small, warm wedding in our yard in Quezon City. But just an hour later, the quiet house suddenly echoed with cries from the bridal chamber. The bride had just opened the door when she collapsed on the floor, tears streaming down her face; and my father – Mang Ramon – was stunned as if he had just lost something very important…

My family was not very turbulent. Nanay Teresa – my mother – died early from cancer when my sister and I were still in college. After that, my father raised two children alone for more than twenty years. Relatives urged him to remarry, but he just shook his head: “Take care of the two of them first.” And he kept his word.

When my sister got married and I had a stable job, my father finally had time for himself. No one expected that, just after turning 60, he would announce that he wanted to remarry. The woman he chose was Ms. Liza, 30 years old, an accountant at a company near home, divorced, no children. They met through a health class at the barangay cultural house, and from a few conversations became close. Ms. Liza was gentle, skillful, and a good listener – it turned out that at some point, everyone needs someone to share with.

At first, my sister and I were a bit shy, not necessarily because of our age, but because we were afraid that my father – an honest, introverted person – would be taken advantage of. But after a few meetings, Ms. Liza did not seem like a scheming person; there was something very gentle and real about her. We nodded in blessing.

The wedding took place in early spring, right in the yard. There was no fanfare, just a few trays of food invited to relatives and close friends. The bride wore a pastel pink Filipiniana, her hair tied up high, her face as gentle as the first sampaguita bud of the season. My father was as flustered as a young man getting married for the first time, smiling widely wherever he went.

That night, after cleaning up, everyone was exhausted. We joked with my father:

“Remember to walk lightly, there are old people and young people in the house!”

My father waved his hand and laughed: “Nonsense.” Then he led Liza into the bridal chamber – which was my parents’ old room; since my mother passed away, my father had lived there. We had suggested renovations, but my father had only changed the curtains, leaving the rest as is: “Too many changes are strange.”

About an hour later, the house had fallen asleep. I was half asleep when I heard a noise at the end of the house. I thought it was a cat running, but then… a cry broke out – clear and heartbreaking. I jumped up; my sister opened the door too. The cry came from the bridal chamber – not a tantrum but a panicked cry, mixed with a shrill cry:

“No! No! Don’t!”

I pushed the door open and ran in. The sight left me speechless…

Liza huddled on the floor, her hands covering her head, her body trembling. Dad stood in the corner, his face pale, his lips moving without forming words. On the floor, her wedding coat was crumpled; scattered around it were small pieces of paper – like torn photos.

My sister rushed to hug Liza, comforting her. After a long time, she was able to speak, her voice broken:

“I… I saw… someone standing in the corner of the room… wearing a gray dress, long hair… staring at me… telling me: ‘This is not your place’.”

Dad remained silent. There was something very strange in his eyes – like fear, like pain, like torment.

That night, my sister took Liza to the living room to rest. Dad sat on the porch until morning. Before the sky had time to lighten, he picked up a broom and swept the yard, as if he wanted to lighten his mood.

At breakfast, no one mentioned the previous night. Not to avoid it, but not knowing where to start. As if everyone had a knot that they had not yet had the courage to untie.

In the gentle afternoon sun, I went out to the porch and saw my father watering the sampaguita plants that my mother had planted when she was still alive. Looking at him at that moment, he did not look like someone who had just gotten married – but like someone who had just dropped something he had kept for a long time.

“Dad… Miss Liza must have been scared. Everything… was too new.”
Dad stopped, and the water spilled onto the cement floor. He let go gently:

“It’s not her fault… it’s me.”

I didn’t understand. Dad looked into the distance, his voice slow and choked as if talking to himself:
“When your mother was alive, she always kept that room warm and clean. After she passed away, I didn’t change anything. Every night when I lay down, I could still smell her hair… hear the sound of the curtains being pulled… I didn’t tell anyone, afraid that people would say I was old and senile.

Last night, when Liza walked in… I felt like I had betrayed your mother. That feeling… like someone was watching. It wasn’t a ghost or anything… it was a memory. And no one can take away memories.”

It was the first time I saw Dad so weak. The man who had raised two children by himself, now huddled in the afternoon shadow, as if he himself was lost in his own house.

That night, I asked my sister to let Liza stay in the living room, while I went to clean Dad’s room. I took down the old photo frames – photos of Nanay Teresa when she was young, with a serious face and gentle eyes. I cleaned the altar, changed the bed sheets, and opened the windows wide to let the wind in. The room no longer had the old smell – only cool wind and light.

The next morning, I sat with Liza. At first she was shy, then she gradually opened up:

“I didn’t mean to make a big deal out of it. It’s just that… when I entered that room, I felt like I was… squeezing into a space that didn’t belong to me. It’s not that I’m afraid of ghosts. I’m afraid… of taking someone else’s place.”

I nodded, speaking honestly:
“**She’s gone. I didn’t replace anyone. What I needed to do was to step in with Dad, not step into someone else’s place.”

Liza smiled slightly: “It sounds strange… but I understand.”

That night, Dad entered the cleaned-up room for the first time. Liza went with him. No one said anything, only seeing them holding hands very lightly, like two old friends sharing the warmth of the day.

From that day on, everything gradually returned to normal. Liza cooked a few simple dishes herself, and planted a few more orchid pots on the balcony. Dad watered the plants in the morning and read the newspaper in the afternoon. Sometimes, I still see him standing silently in front of my mother’s picture on the altar, as if he were telling her a story.

One afternoon, Liza called me out to the garden:

“I’m thinking of moving the bedroom. Let’s redo the small room near the kitchen – brighter. As for the old room… let Ramon keep it, as a resting place whenever he needs to remember.”

I nodded. Not because I “accepted” her as my father’s second wife, but because I understood: sometimes love is not about replacement, but about knowing when to retreat – when to advance.

The house is still the same – old painted walls, loose wooden doors, mossy tiled roof. But the difference is, now no one has to live alone with the old shadow. My father still said:
“There are things that don’t need to be forgotten… just learn to live with them.”